Five, Ten, Fifteen
by AluminumFoiledAgain
Summary: "Our passion is fragile. Not to say it won't withstand the tumults of tomorrow, for it has withstood plenty already. No, it is fragile in that we are broken people. Lost. Hurt. Afraid. Still healing. We grow together. We break together. We choose to love together. No matter what will come, though come it may." Post Mockingjay. Peeta and Katniss' road to parenthood. T for sad themes
1. Prologue: Put Together

**A/N: _"They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much."_**

**When I read the quote above, my mind began to explore what the above scenario would look like. I researched, read other people's versions, but did not find anything that looked quite like what danced inside my head. So, I decided to write my own version, my own imagining. I hope you enjoy. I hope stays true to the characters. I hope it touches you at times, gives you hope at others, and reminds you to take hold of the joys before you.**

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**Prologue: Put Together**

**Song: Only Love Remains – Griffin House**

_From riches to rags_  
_From diamonds to coal_  
_You've always seemed better to me_  
_You trade in your silver for the price of my soul_  
_To buy what is already free_

I stare at her. We blink simultaneously, tilting our heads in silent recognition of one another.

I take in her appearance, examining her. White sleeves of a long white dress, the color of innocence, encase thin arms. A high neckline with lace adorns her, adding regality to her appearance. Her simplistic hairstyle is adorned by a crown of wildflowers, filling in gaps of lost innocence, dignity, and pride with newness, humility, and hope. It attracts attention to her head; not held high, but level with my own. She stands barefoot, hands clasped in front of her.

Who is she? Part of her is recognizable as someone I once knew, though faintly.

The woman standing before me is not a war hero; though the scars crisscrossing her features suggest a past of brutality and hate that is well known and well worn. She is not full of reckless, naïve youth. Gray tired eyes peek dimly through thick dark lashes, having seen much, cautiously taking in what is left of the world. Nor is she discovering adventure- her braid, put together by practiced, particular, decided fingers, reflects a daily choice for some semblance of routine.

Steadily she stands, not as a woman confident in her ability to put together, but one trusting another, at peace to _be_ put together. Behind the history of zigzaged lines across her face, past in her eyes, format of familiar hairstyles is a finality. Around her rests the choice to keep scars a thing of the past, to allow someone to know their origin yet craft a future with what hope remains; never again fueling the fire of once embraced rage.

She is a bride, although not one attended by laughing friends, adoring mothers, or complimented by passers-by. She stands alone, listening to the distant crackling of a fire that surely grows, silently waiting and reflecting before turning away to the next chapter of her life.

I stand before the mirror, taking in my own reflection, knowing I am not the same as I once was. Knowing that when I turn, I will leave behind the former ways I lived; so lightning fast and motivated by disaster, and embrace what has always been before me, yet not be swayed by the fancies of the masses. I will choose Peeta. I will choose hope. I will choose bread, dandelions, and love.

It was a process, Peeta and I. Slow. Deliberate. Intentional. This time, I did not kiss him to earn the fickle approval of my enemies. I did not whisper secrets to him for the whole world to hear. I did not force his hand into proposing. I did not say yes with pain in my heart, questions in my head, and hate flowing through me. Instead, this time I truly saw the person before me. He is the boy with the bread, the man who saved me, the friend who gave me hope, the defender I never wanted to hurt again, the love my heart had embraced. I chose him, not for the good of the rebellion, not for the protection of family, but for my own sake.

A small, peaceful smile settles onto my face. Breathing deeply, I acknowledge my reflection and slowly turn towards the hall. There is stirring downstairs. He is there below me. Stoking the fire. Preparing the bread. Waiting for me, as he has now for many years.

It will be just the two of us at our toasting, as unconventional as it may seem. There will be no broadcasted wedding, no gaggle of people to fawn over us and make our lives their own. Rather, the bread will serve as witness. The fire will ordain us. And our home will preserve the memories not even a hundred pictures could grasp. Just the two of us, as it somewhat has always been. Peeta and me, against all odds, against tributes, against ourselves, against each other, against the Capitol, against the uprising. Now, together for our future. Of course, I am still terrified of what could come. I am unsure of the milestones and tribulations our future will hold. However, I stay firm in who I want to spend the fear-filled days with, whose words will soothe my frantic thoughts, whose arms will ward off the nightmares: Peeta's.

One step at a time, I descend the stairs.

He is crouched beside the fireplace, dressed in brown pants and a simple cream shirt. Stationary, Peeta looks into the fire before him, perhaps reflecting just as I had moments ago. I watch him breathe; see the steady, reliable, safe rise and fall of his chest.

When my foot reaches the next ledge, boards creak, signifying my arrival. Instantly, Peeta's blue eyes, alight with joy, reflecting the dancing of the flames in the fireplace next to him, jump up to meet my gaze. A smile as old as life itself spreads across his face, hair dark golden in the dim lighting, the firelight flickering and changing, casting long shadows in our living room.

Slowly he stretches up, unfolding his limbs from his prior crouch.

Peeta crosses the floor and takes my hand in his. Calculated, he places my palm to his lips, just as he has done so many times before. His liquid blue eyes close as he breaths me in and breathes out my name.

It's a promise. It's a declaration. It's an invitation.

Our passion is fragile. Not to say it will not withstand the tumults of tomorrow, for it has withstood plenty already. No, it is fragile in that we are broken people. Lost. Hurt. Afraid. Still healing. Our passion is not consumed by flames and momentary heat, but by the sweetness and the surety of long-withstood care and affection.

We grow together. We break together. We choose to love together. No matter what will come, though come it may.

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**Ending Notes: I know that starting a story about a baby with a toasting 5 years earlier may seem strange, but I did it to establish how I want Peeta and Katniss' relationship to be. In my mind, post Mockingjay especially, I picture their love as something quiet, sweet, and chosen. Its not a passionate, loud celebration of make-outs and fanfare, but a trust and a security in the little everyday moments.**

**Also, I wrote this in present tense because that's what Suzanne Collins does. Also, for some of you that followed right away, you may notice that I've changed the format, edited, and added quotes so many times that this looks nothing like the original version. However, its better, and I'm planning on continuing this way.**

**Song Description: I picked this song because I feel like it describes Katniss and Peeta's journey very well.**

**Thank you for reading. Please review with any questions, suggestions, or comments you may have.**


	2. Chapter 1: Inconvenient Things

**A/N: This next chapter is set 5 years after the prologue takes place.**

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** FIVE  **

**Chapter One: The Most Inconvenient of Things**

**Song: Slow Life - Grizzly Bear**

_I think I know what's on your mind  
A couple words, a great divide  
Waiting in the wings, a small respite  
Crowding up the foreground from behind_

* * *

The winter has begun to die.

I feel it as I trudge through the woods. The crisp sound of crunching snow has softened to squishes as last traces of frozen water soak into the ground. The sharp piercing scent of cold that burns the nose has reduced to pine, dirt, and sun. Branches drip, and faint songs of returning mockingjays echo through the trees.

Sometimes Peeta and I still come here, to think, to breathe, but mostly for food. Although it has been 7 years since the uprising, and District 12 is mostly restored with marketplaces and shops to do the hunting and gathering for us, Peeta and I take pleasure in venturing into the unknown, into the quiet, and providing for ourselves. He gathers herbs and berries while I hunt small game. He'll pick me wildflowers and I shoot him squirrels. It's a nice enough arrangement, although his artificial leg still causes problems in scaring off even the smallest and slowest of prizes.

Which is why today, I come alone. Squirrel, rabbit, and wild turkey are sufficient, but as of late Peeta has been mentioning venison, speaking of a variety of casseroles, stews, and marinades to go with his fresh baked bread. However, acquiring venison is a task that requires more time, more stealth, more silence. It has been years since I've taken the initiative to track one down. Its not often I come here alone, and Peeta doesn't approve the few times it happens. In the beginning of our healing process, and even now at times, I have been overcome by memories which riddle me non-functioning, hiding and trembling behind trees from half-imagined nightmares. They are triggered by the slightest of things, such as the draw of a bow or a sharp crack of a twig underfoot. Unpredictable, but manageable, especially if Peeta is there to whisper sweet assurances into my ear, for me to be folded into his strong arms and feel safe.

I tell myself the trauma will not happen, because today has a purpose. Today, the goal is to be the provider for our home, to contribute something tangible.

In the woods I stand, taking in the birth of spring, the warming of winter's bane.

Hours pass with little success, as my tracking skills have gone largely unutilized. I see prints, but find it difficult to determine how old they are. I see traces of life, but remain unsure of where they would have gone next. It used to be so easy.

Disgruntled, I find solace underneath a pine tree with large, fanned out branches, taking in the clean smell. Next to my feet, there are brown hoods of mushrooms and some shoots of green. Wanting to return home with at least something, I crouch down and pluck some up, shoving them into my pockets.

As I bend back a green leaf to grasp the last mushroom when I hear it- a slight movement, a shifting of something bigger than my usual prey.

An inch at a time, my head lifts. This part comes naturally. Carefully I remove an arrow out of my quiver and align it just so, holding my breath as I draw the string back, twisting to the left, looking and aiming for my prize.

I see her, and she is beautiful. Slender neck, long russet face, white ears framed with a pattern of black. She stands alert yet unsuspecting, stationary between two curving trees which form a wedding arch of sorts over her. A mockingjay sings, wind blows gently through the forest, ruffling her tail, and I can't help but think that 40 yards away, this doe has been delivered to me, practically giftwrapped. It is an easy kill.

My mind conjures Peeta and the pride that will shine in his smile when he sees what has been accomplished, when he hears that I finished my task with no breakdowns.

My breath releases in one steady exhale, muscles relaxed, fingers poised to release. I stare down the shaft of the arrow, moving it slightly to the right so it is straight over her heart.

In that moment, another figure chooses to emerge from between the trees. It is less discreet than the doe- small, soft, on wobbly legs. White spots speckle its tan back, and protruding black eyes look up to the doe next to it, expressing such trust. It is a fawn.

Momentarily, my muscles freeze up while my heart races faster, conflicting thoughts racing through my head.

In the grand scheme of things, what is a deer? What harm does it do if I rend a small fawn motherless?

Visions of Prim fill my head, looking up at my mother, at me, with those same scared and new eyes. I see Finn, Annie and Finnick's son, so innocent and learning to walk on wobbly legs, unaware of the dangers of the world he was brought into, unaware of the caliber of his parents' pain. I see the arena, full of children with no mothers there to protect them. No fathers to defend them. And, like this fawn's fate will be if I remove its caregiver, they die.

This fawn is not a human. These woods are not the arena of the memories that haunt my waking and sleeping hours. The fawn potentially could survive. It could make it. Perhaps it would be stronger because of the independence it learned in its youth.

I could still shoot.

I could.

I probably should.

It would be one shot for Peeta's sake; for our little family of just the two of us. He deserves something nice. I owe him that much.

But I can't. I won't. And I don't.

My fingers unskillfully release their grip on the bow, the string twanging as it snaps back into place, the arrow shooting off into the ground 10 feet before me with a low thud. Soon after, its followed by a cry of birds nesting in the trees around and whooshing of flapping wings as they flee.

Panting, I watch both doe and fawn, now alerted and terrified, sprint off into the distance, away from me, away from danger.

Good, I think. Be safe. Exhausted, I sink down, tuck up my knees, close my eyes, and breathe deep.

...

When my eyes open again, the sun is setting over the mountains and the temperature dropping quickly. I rub the back of my eyes and stand, wordlessly and thoughtlessly turning back towards home.

Coming up to our house in the ornate and recently outdated Victor's Village, the sun long gone behind the mountains now, I see Peeta before he sees me. He sits on the front stoop, head in hands. His hair is disheveled, most likely from pulling at it in worry. After 5 years of marriage, it is something seen time and time again. It is his unconscious coping mechanism when I have nightmares, when he has nightmares of his own, when I am late coming home, or when after a nasty bout of drunkenness Haymitch won't answer the door.

In retrospect, I was only gone for a day- early afternoon to late evening. However, this is what we do. I don't hold it to him for possibly overreacting, for my own mind does the same. Sometimes, when Peeta is at the bakery and smoke rises in the distance, my mind goes crazy. I dream up firebombs, the bakery burning down, peacekeeper's fire guns. Thankfully, we're nearly always wrong... but we have known too much destruction to shove nightmares aside as an impossibility.

"Peeta?" I say softly, standing a few feet in front of him.

His head jolts up, and relieved yet concerned eyes look me up and down, most likely inspecting for damage, externally inflicted or by my own hands. There is not a scratch on me, just empty hands and an embarrassed look in my own eyes- in equal parts for being so late, making him so worried, and for my miniature breakdown over an innocent deer I should have cared nothing about.

Faster than I can say anything else, I am cemented against him, my head in the nape if his neck, both arms holding me close to him. His lips press to the top of my head and I exhale, letting our miniature reunion play out.

"Katniss," he says, touching my face gently, drawing it back to look into his. "I thought… I thought… you were gone so long." He shakes his head in thought, most likely trying to rid himself of the ideas of my fate. Who knows what the darker parts of his mind conjured up- mauled by a bear, kidnapped by rogue supporters of the fallen Capitol, stung by tracker jackers, or simply me curled underneath a bush, waiting to be found my muttations, another tribute, acid fog, or worse. "Are you alright?"

I bite my lip and nod my head. "I fell asleep in the woods."

"Oh." Another bout of confusion crinkles his brow. "Why didn't you le t me know you were going today? I've been in need of some fresh mushrooms."

I draw back from him, reaching into my pockets for what little I brought home. "Here," I say, placing the light brown mushroom in his hand. I smile slightly, searching in his eyes. "It was meant to surprise you. A gift. I didn't return with much."

His fingers close around the mushrooms, and he studies them for a moment before looking back up at me. He smiles and chuckles as his lips gratefully press into mine for a lingering kiss. "Well, thank you." He keeps his hand steady on my lower back as he turns to lead me inside.

On the dining table is laid an ornate meal- round buns with crusted yellow cheese on the top, shortbread cookies with poppy flowers iced into the top. Candles, the wax burned low, set aflame, poised at the middle of our too-big dining table. I inhale, and beyond the smell of the fresh baked bread and the light sweetness of the sweets, I smell something full and heavy.

I peer into the pot to the right. It consists of carrots, potatoes, and meat… although definitely not turkey, squirrel, or rabbit. Befuddled, Peeta sees my confusion and sits down in the chair across from me, a happy and proud smile on his face.

"Well, Mrs. Mellark, while you spent all day traipsing through the woods, I went into town and bought us some venison. I thought I'd make that stew we were talking about the other day."

Venison. He bought us venison. And I left him for a day only to come back empty-handed. Haymitch was right… I'd never live long enough to truly deserve him.

He serves me a ladle of the hot stew, studying my face. He can see my thoughts displayed like a banner across my forehead.

"What's wrong?"

"That's what I meant to get you today. I wanted to get a deer for you. But I didn't."

He laughs, placing a hand on mine, which is grasping my spoon tightly. "Katniss, I love you. That is a wonderful idea, but it's okay. I've heard deer have been scarce this year."

My forehead creases. "But that's not even it. I saw one. It was perfect, I could've gotten it so easily. But I couldn't."

"What do you mean?"

I hesitate. I wasn't going to tell him this part. Not with the gentle subject matter, the slight breakdown it brought earlier in the day. But before I can stop myself, I'm twirling my spoon around in the stew, explaining. "I had a doe in front of me, but then her fawn stepped out too. I couldn't do it."

"I understand." He's thinking about something deeper. I can tell by the way his lips are pursed and the tender tone of his voice.

In a rush, I spurt out a torrent of words, trying to explain myself. "It's not like I couldn't because of the law or anything, we haven't had hunting restrictions since before the uprising. I just couldn't leave that fawn without its mother. I cared about it. I wanted to protect it. I don't even know what came over me. Why do I always do that with the littlest, most inconvenient of things?"

Peeta looks at me a long time, silent. Is he mad I didn't just shoot the deer? That's not his character. Is he thinking I meant he was included in the category of most inconvenient things? He should know by now that I have chosen him. Is he thinking something else, something else that we've talked about before, and that I've adamantly shut down time after time? Surely he wouldn't.

He opens his mouth, purses his lips once more in second-guessing. I can tell he is mustering up his courage as he joins me in stew-stirring, drawing patterns in the broth and pushing around carrots and potatoes with the back of the metal utensil.

"You do that type of thing because you have a good heart. A beautiful heart. And you care deeply for things, whether or not you'd like to admit it." Peeta tenses a moment, then relaxes. He looks straight at me, dropping the spoon from his hand halfway into the forgotten stew. "Katniss, what would you think of being a… of having a… of caring deeply for something like a… a baby of our own?"

Soup twirling stops, and immediately my whole being tenses. Not this conversation again. I thought he had locked away any hope that I would ever agree a long time ago. But his eyes plead with me to answer, a faint hope allowing itself to manifest in his eyes. He wants this, deeper than I realize.

"Peeta," I breathe, "you know that I can't."

He nods slowly. He remembers. "I think you'd be a great mother."

"No, I'm too broken. Too scared. Too dangerous."

"So am I," he murmurs, "I shouldn't be allowed to take care of anyone."

"You would make the best father." This is said truthfully, as I can see it when I close my eyes. He could have a daughter he'd waltz around the kitchen, standing tippy-toes on top of his shoes. He could have a son to hoist above his shoulders while the little one laughed, knowing his father was so trustworthy and warm. But it will never be. He chose me... surely he knew the consequences of that choice before the decision was made?

"I tried to kill you at first, Katniss. Are you saying that is not broken, scared, and dangerous?"

I hesitate. "But you wouldn't do that again. You grew. You overcame."

A smile toys with the edge of his lips. "Yes, you're right. Every moment fighting my instinct, reshaping how I thought, taking risks… it was worth it." He looks lovingly at me now. "It was worth it because now I have you. And you can do it, too."

"I don't think I can," my voice breaks. "I don't think I can change."

Peeta gets up and in two side steps comes to my side of the table. I look at him, shocked, as he gets down on one knee before me. It reminds me of a proposal. It breaks my heart. He holds both of my hands between his- so loving, gentle, and able. "Katniss, I think deep down you long to care deeply about something, about someone."

"I care about you," I whisper, willing this conversation to end.

"And I care, need, love you more than I think you still grasp." He is speaking from the heart again, in the way I never know how to reciprocate. "But I'm talking about something else, something more that completes us."

I can see where he's going, and feel my resolve start to waver. Unbridled desire is in his eyes, and I feel the shaking of his hands, knowing how vulnerable he's being, how much his heart longs for this- but not just any child. What Peeta wants is our own child, a beacon of hope proving to not only the world, but to ourselves that life can come from tragedy, that phoenixes truly do rise again.

Maybe Peeta is right. Maybe I do long for that as well.

Out of nowhere, pictures assault my mind, memories drug up from the darkest caverns of my heart, ricocheting off every hope I had just allowed myself to think. I see an explosion of the mines, leaving my family without a father. I see mothers weeping as their children, year after year, are sent to the games to never return, leaving mothers helpless to defend them while they watch their little one being murdered. I see children used as a decoy around Snow's house, blown up by the uprising. I see destruction, war, and hatred. And in the middle of it all, I see my own face. I was a part of so much of it. I caused so much of it. How could a child be safe with me? With anyone? Not in this world.

My answer comes after much silence, much thinking once the swirling of torment has stopped.

"No." With that, I stand and turn away, leaving Peeta knelt on the ground with his dreams.

My feet feel heavy as I trudge towards the stairs, tears threatening to spill over. I haven't cried, not for a long time, and it puzzles me why in this moment, in the absence of a yes to having a child with Peeta, I feel empty. I look over my shoulder and see him, no longer kneeling, no longer hopeful. Instead, he sits on the floor, shoulders hunched, our stews still steaming above him. I notice he covers his mouth with his hands, striving to muffle his crying.

I did that to him.

I feel nothing as my body autopilots straight to bed, trying not to think. However, I can not stop the new rush of accusations, as feeling rushes back to me in waves.

I try not to count the ways am incapable of providing Peeta with what he desires.

I try not to see his devastated frame on the ground, mourning lives he will never know.

I try not to hate myself for being the one to once again cause him such pain.

Trying to sleep is futile, but I pretend to be asleep when Peeta comes in hours later. There is a distinguishable thump as he removes his boots, and the rustling of fabric as he unbuttons and removes his shirt, again as he pulls back the covers.

My eyes stay closed, but I feel him staring at me. I feel his knuckle grazing my cheek tenderly. Goosebumps rise on my arms as he moves stray hairs from the side of my face. I notice the intake of breath when he sees the shiny train tracks of tears that streak down my face, giving away the secret of my inner turmoil. His lips are soft and warm as he presses them to my forehead.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

_He_ is sorry? I bite my tongue to keep from letting out a soft cry. No, Peeta should not be sorry. I am the one who is broken, who is ruined.

When at last my eyes finally do close, as if it had been waiting for this moment, all I see is a fawn.

* * *

**Ending Notes: I know you were probably expecting her to say yes. For a moment I almost had her say yes as well. However, it isn't time. Funny how these type of things seem to write themselves? Stay tuned.**

**Song Explanation: Mostly I think the vibe goes with the forest scene and the lyrics go with their conversation. **

**And, as always, comment, review, critique, suggest. Thank you!**


	3. Chapter 2: The Key

**A/N:**** A prologue and two chapters in two days. Happy Thanksgiving, the few of you who are reading this. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Key**

**Song: The Cave – Mumford and Sons**

_It's empty in the valley of your heart_  
_The sun, it rises slowly as you walk_  
_Away from all the fears and all the faults_  
_You've left behind_

* * *

My hands grasp the drawn bow, limbs shaking as I study the fawn before me, about to let the arrow fly point-blank.

"Why don't you run?" Doesn't it know I am dangerous?

Unfazed, the tiny thing stands unmoving. Startled, I notice it has blue eyes, like Peeta's, causing me to stop and stare back into them.

"It's for your own good," I tell it, still unable to break eye contact.

Unconvinced, it doesn't move. In fact, there seems to be no fear in its eyes. It stands almost expectantly, waiting for my course of action. There should be something, anything around to whisk it away from me and deliver it to a safer resting place. However, any sort of caretaker seems to be nowhere around, just the small tan little thing, standing on knobby thin legs before me, completely unprotected.

Slowly I return the bow string to its resting place, letting it slip from my grasp and fall to the ground.

A conviction comes over me. I can't hurt it.

Curious, I crouch down and hold out a hand to test the barriers of this trust. The fawn leans into my extended palm, pressing its surprisingly warm nose into the center. Warmth spreads through me, starting in the center of my hand and spreading to the tips of my toes. It clouds my vision, causing a tentative smile to spread across my face. Slowly, I move my hand to its neck and caress it gently.

"Isn't she beautiful?" The voice is Peeta's. I didn't know he was here, too.

My head lifts, keeping a hand poised on the young fawn. Peeta stands over my shoulder, and we are underneath the tree wedding arch I encountered yesterday. He looks down, face glowing. Blonde hair sits mussed up, but despite whatever has taken so much focus and energy out of him, he grins, his eyes alight with joy and pride, focused on the fawn and me.

I grin back at him, happy to see him this elated.

"Amazing, isn't it? It's so strange… the thing has your eyes. I never thought- " The fawn has disappeared when I look back down, rendering me speechless.

In its place is a baby, wrapped in white. The deer's soft neck beneath my hand is replaced by tiny fingers gripping mine, the rest of my hand splayed protectively over the swaddling cloth. I watch it breathe. I see the impossibly thin brown hair feathered on the top of its head; nearly counting each of the tiny eyelashes that flutter as blue eyes peer up at me.

My heart beats faster.

"Is it…" I begin to ask, unable to take my eyes off of the thing, marveling as tiny pale fingers tighten around my index finger and a small sound escapes its lips.

"Ours?" Peeta finishes, now crouched next to me, an arm around my shoulders, lightly kissing up my jawline.

Swallowing, I nod.

The kissing stops. His lips go straight to my ear, and he whispers, "No… but she could be."

I jolt awake, breathless.

Flinging one arm out to grasp Peeta's arm, I find he is gone. Honestly, I'm somewhat glad. As much as his presence is missed, I do not know how to face him. He loves me stubbornly, but I dread the moment I have to look into his eyes and see the long held desire shut away again.

Its then that I notice my other arm remains positioned as if I was still holding the infant.

Quickly I shake it out, running both hands through my hair, unsure whether or not the video that plays behind my eyes be of muttations or the unnamed child. Both options equally terrifying, although for different reasons. Muttations, as scary and unpredictable as they are, are vaguely familiar and experienced. The baby that could be, however, is entirely new and holds with it worry unparalleled. Still, what was the warmth that spread through me?

Before I can think of it more, I drag myself out of bed to the sink, letting cool water splash over my face, patting it dry with an already damp towel that smells like Peeta. I look up and stare into the reflection with tired and confused eyes. I've been called many things in my life: Hunter. Volunteer. Tribute. Girl on Fire. Star-Crossed Lover. Victor. Mockingjay. But Mother? Never had I considered myself even a candidate for that term.

As I walk down the hall, seeking a distraction, I hold my fingers out, dragging the pads of fingertips across the walls, focusing on textures, counting breaths, keeping my mind on lockdown so it will not venture to unsafe venues. Shuffling down the stairs, a slight, unexpected ruckus comes from the level below. I see Haymitch looting through cabinets around the corner, eventually pulling out a bowl, hungrily eyeing the mostly untouched stew from the night before.

"Where is Peeta?"

Haymitch plops down in a chair, sloshing soup into his bowl. Still ignoring me, he lets out an "Aha" as he picks up Peeta's spoon from across the table, wiping it on his pants leg and dipping it into the stew before answering my question. "Why, good morning to you too, sweetheart. You know, you and that boy really need to start learning that I'm not your tracking system. Yesterday he rushes over jabbering about where you've run off to and today, in your own house, I'm getting interrogated." He slurps his spoonful of broth, making clearly satisfied sounds. "Although, you two do know how to cook up a mean stew. Gah-lly." He flashes a smile before redirecting his focus.

"So you're saying you don't know where he is?"

"That'd be correct, although as it is a Thursday I'd assume he is at the bakery. That _is_ where he typically goes when he's not out about with you star-crossed loving, isn't it?"

He has a point. I pull out the chair across from him and sit down. "Did you come just to tidy up our leftovers?"

Haymitch looks up from the bowl. "No, actually." I brace myself, waiting for a question of where our liquor is hidden, or when we'd be able to call Plutarch back, which we truthfully have avoided for years. Instead, he asks a question very different: "How are you doing?"

A snort escapes me. "You came to check on my feelings?"

Haymitch picks up the empty mug in front of him, squinting one eye closed as he peers into it, twirling it around precariously on his index finger. "In case you've forgotten, I do have an interest in you and Peeta's lives. I am, how you would say, involved." He draws out the last syllables of his statement, swinging his hand around in the air in a mock-Effie way.

"We're fine," I muse aloud.

Eyebrows shoot up as if tugged by marionette strings. "That's it? Come on, sweetheart."

"Peeta is wonderful as ever."

He smiles absently, shaking his head. "Tell me something I don't know." Pulling a flask from inside his jacket pocket, he unscrews the lid, letting the clear liquid flow from its mouth into the previously empty mug. Holding the flask up to his lips, he tips back, smacking loudly. "And you? How are you treating our golden boy?" One more swig, and the flask it placed back into its hiding place in Haymitch's outfit.

"I'm…" words fail me, so I cut short.

Haymitch sighs deeply and crosses his arms on top of the table. "Oh Jeez." Scratching his head, Haymitch scans the room before shifting to face me, a serious look in his eye. "Are you having… marital issues? Because I can't exactly mentor that. Give me an issue about a crazed 16 year old or a political figure threatening your life. Now that," Haymitch raises his glass to me, "I can help you with."

"It's not that." My fingers find themselves occupied with a nearby napkin. "I don't know how to give him what he wants."

He slowly shakes his head as he takes a long drink. "Sweetheart. The boy knows you love him. Even _I_ know you do. But listen, no one expects the picture perfect Capitol inspired cheese fest melodrama you pretended to be for so long. This is _real_. This is you, loving that boy however it is you love him." He furrows his eyebrows together. "Please spare me the details of that, by the way." I nod, the last thing on my mind discussing Peeta and my most intimate moments with our drunken mentor. "You're both still wounded. Heck, I'm messed up beyond belief. But at least you two have each other. That's more than most of us can say." He looks down at his vodka with the first sign I have seen of disdain. "All that to say… Peeta loves you for you. You're all he's ever really wanted anyway."

"How did we end up with him?" I wonder.

"Lord knows it sure has nothing to do with either of our charm. This whole worthless world isn't good enough for him." We both take my silence as agreement.

Haymitch's point is precisely the issue.

The rest of our visit is speckled with news. The reconstructed Panem has started treaties with other nations. My mother is the director of a healer center. Effie got engaged, bless the man who loves her. Plutarch and Cressida are beginning preparation for a big 10-year anniversary of the fall of the Capitol, and have asked Peeta and me to be a part of it 3 years in advance. Johanna has taken up whittling. Little Finn is six years old now and loves the water as much as his father did.

Talk of the boy muddles my thoughts again.

"What do you think of children?" I splutter before I can think better of it, begging Haymitch to stop mocking the latest fashion trends and to not to read too much into the question.

"Well, I suppose they're alright- naïve little things filled with questions that never end." He chuckles. "Messier than I am, definitely."

"So you're not a fan?"

He looks at me like I'm having an episode. "Katniss. That whole rebellion thing, no matter the false pretenses it had attached to it, why was it done?"

"Freedom."

"Yes, but for whom? For you and me and Peeta? For the fallen? No, we will soon grow old and die. And in the meantime we benefit from this new freedom… but for us, the way it was is somewhat still the way it is. What we remember, how we react, why we do what we do… it is based on what we we've been fighting against. What we're fighting for is for the children. It's so they don't have the nightmares we do. So they don't have to anticipate oppression and destruction around every corner. So they can live; being free from the very start. Children are messy and stupid and unpredictable, take up so much time, and some eventually turn into fools. But they're worth it. They're hope, sweetheart. They're the only thing that can turn this wasteland into the kind of world Peeta deserves."

"Oh," I say, quickly wiping away the one tear that slips past my walls. Tall, thick, defensive walls I had put up around hope so long ago.

…

Numbly I walk to the bakery, Haymitch's speech echoing in my ears. He left quickly after.

The house had seemed so big… so empty… so quiet, driving me to get up and walk out, not imagining the patter of little feet, the giggles of innocent happiness, the sounds of Peeta teaching and explaining and loving.

A bell above the door chimes as I open it, meeting the eyes of Powell Cartwright, Delly's younger brother and Peeta's almost apprentice. He moved back with the fourth major wave of people about a year ago. With his family's shoe shop destroyed and no idea how to proceed, Peeta offered him opportunity to help out at the bakery.

"Mrs. Mellark," he acknowledges. "Peeta is in the back."

I walk behind the counter into the kitchen and see him. His back is to me, standing over a pile of dough, pressing his hands down into it, kneading. The muscles in his shoulders move with skill and precision, wrinkling and then pulling his shirt tight. In so many ways, the boy he used to be is left far behind him. He's changed as much as I have since the reaping nearly eight years earlier. Scars snake their way up the side of his neck. Muscles in his arms are stronger, braver. His prosthetic leg is camouflaged well with the other, so normal now that if I didn't know, I couldn't tell.

Peeta dips his hands in a bowl of flour and hovers them above the dough, letting the flour fall, the dust billowing into the air. Turning his head to the side slightly, I see some of the white powder has found solace on his temple while he continues working, unaware. Perhaps that is one thing I love about him, that despite the torture he's undergone, the losses he's taken, some things still stay the same; still innocent and boyish, untouched by tragedy.

I know Haymitch is right. He deserves a world so much better than the one we live in. And if anyone's children hold the key to making it happen, Peeta's would.

Wordlessly, I walk up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, nuzzling my face into his shirt, breathing him in. He turns in my embrace and runs his fingers through my hair. Unwrapping my arms from around him, I place one hand on his chest and gently rub away flour from his temple the with other. The right corner of my lips curve up into a half-smile as my eyes gaze into his, head tilted slightly.

"I…" he starts to say.

Before he can continue, my mouth is on his. I kiss him to say I'm sorry. I kiss him because I owe him the happiness he desires. I kiss him with all the thanks, love, and hope I can muster. He kisses me back, fingers weaved into my hair, not questioning my motivation or wasting precious time.

After a while we part, and I rest my forehead against his, closing my eyes. We breathe together, and I know that right now, things could continue as normal without any remarks, confrontations, or questions. We could pretend like nothing happened and be content as we had a day ago. Neither of us needs to bring up the question of last night, and I surely don't have to explain to him my conversation with Haymitch this morning. However, despite all of this, the word finds its way to the tip of my tongue. I kiss Peeta lightly once more.

"Okay."

Peeta freezes, his arms sliding around my waist, tightening. "Okay?" His voice shakes, frozen in the moment. He seems unsure of what I'm agreeing to.

But we both know; so I repeat. "Okay."

He laughs heartily, picking me up and spinning me around. And when he kisses me this time and the multiple times after that, something begins to further unfold in my heart, threatening to spread beyond what I dared to tell myself could be the most I would ever experience.

Happiness.

* * *

**Ending Notes:** **I know what you might be thinking. "Wait! It is five, ten, fifteen years, and she is gives in after 5. That's not what the book says." And to that I say: you're correct. I took a very different look at the five, ten, fifteen years concept. Instead of just a literarily dynamic way to express how much time it took, I took it as 3 mile markers. This is the mile marker of year 5, but know that this marker isn't finished yet. **

**Song Explanation: Things are changing. **


	4. Chapter 3: All Along

**A/N: You may be wondering why I've been writing like a maniac recently. Its because my goal is to have this done by the end of December. Typically when I write I get lots of inspiration at the beginning, then it slowly dies the longer I wait, which eventually led to me deleting all my previous half-finished stories about a year and a half ago. With this, I decided if I was going to write it I was going to actually write it and finish, so I've set goals. **

**This chapter is a little shorter, but it is poignant. Brace yourselves. I apologize in advance. **

* * *

**Chapter 3: All Along**

**Song: Heavy In Your Arms - Florence & The Machine**

_I was a heavy heart to carry  
my beloved was weighed down  
My arms around his neck  
My fingers laced a crown  
I was a heavy heart to carry  
But he never let me down  
When he held me in his arms  
My feet never touched the ground_

* * *

After our initial embracing finished, Peeta wouldn't leave me without some sort of contact- holding my hand as he discussed finances with Powell, animatedly talking with me while decorating cupcakes, eyes flickering back and forth between my face and the oven from which he was removing hot rolls. I seemed to be distracting him, as he had worked on parts of three different projects but never finished anything all the way through. I made the suggestion that I leave, but he adamantly refused.

Instead, he led me up off of the sacks of flour to his first project- a pile of raw dough. He stood behind me, showing me how to properly flour-coat my hands, guiding my wrists in kneading techniques, delivering feather-light kisses to my neck while I helped him. By the end of the afternoon we had a dozen cinnamon loaves cooling. They looked a bit more lopsided than Peeta's usual. My face was decorated with flour, placed there both by my own recklessness in baking and by Peeta's flirting. We walked home that night, his arm around my shoulders protectively, shielding me from the night with his warmth.

That night he poured his heart out to me in a beautiful myriad of forms.

Since that day, Peeta's eyes seem to constantly dance. Sometimes he grabs my hand and makes me dance along with them, leaving me breathless and him laughing with delight. Peeta has always been romantic; never have I felt neglected. However, recently his displays of affection have been rekindled with a new spark. Come morning I wake up to adoration and fondness; when night falls I return to bed with a different version of the same.

It's in the last two and a half month of this that I've realized how little I am aware of the practicals of being pregnant. Shouldn't I just know when it happens?

Because Mother and Prim were the healers I learned little about how bodies work. Externals- tourniquets, burns, hunger pains, and migraines- I can skillfully deal with. However, when it comes to deciphering internal changes and picking up on subtle cues my body delivers, I am useless. Even more than that, never once did I think it useful or important to learn about pregnancy.

When I sleep in long past sunrise and find myself yawning at dinner I blame it on boredom. When what little remains in my stomach is forcefully and repeatedly upheaved I blame it on bad rabbit meat. When I find myself repulsed by onions I blame it on eating them too frequently. When the waist of my pants grows just a fraction tighter I blame it on aging.

Part of me is curious and suspicious that the series of abnormalities going on within me isn't coincidence, but I don't tell Peeta, just in case it isn't real.

He suspects though. I see it in the way he looks at me, how he traces patterns on my stomach with his nose, when he often brings home cookies and the best bread loaves. In my mind, it points to the likely possibility that he's just waiting for me to confirm. I try to hide the things that could look like pregnancy- napping while Peeta is at the bakery, eating around onions, excusing myself calmly when I need to throw up, just so he doesn't see, wearing baggier shirts just in case he'd notice.

Maybe I do know. Mostly I am confused and stalling.

I could call my mother to get clarity, but I don't want her to ask questions on how I agreed. Besides the desire Peeta has for them and the desire I have for Peeta's highest good, I am not convinced this is the best idea. I remain afraid of the world at large, knowing many of the horrors I faced as a child are now different. However, it doesn't dismiss the possibility of those same problems rising in a new way. I don't talk about these thoughts with anyone. Talking would just increase them, not diminish their significance in my thoughts.

There are tests to take, various ways to know if and when I am pregnant. However, I can't think of a way to get ahold of one of the manufactured tests without people being alerted to Peeta and my circumstance. I don't want them having any part of this process, friends and neighbors or not. Even the smallest bit of public disclosure means possibility of cameras.

Perhaps these are excuses. A very real part of me simply does not want to acknowledge that this could be real. Right now, a baby is still just a possibility and not yet a reality. The moment it is solidified and certain, I have to be brave. I have to trust. I have to share. While the baby would be Peeta's and mine, others would know about it. Others would see it and influence it. That is something I can't fully control.

It's easier to remain uncertain, so I do.

Although, it can only last for so long.

On a warm day in May I know for sure.

A light breeze spreads through Victor's Village, wafting the smell of the fully blooming primrose bushes into our house. I sit on a loveseat with Peeta in an airy dress Annie sent me, my legs tucked up beneath me, his arm around me. On his lap is my family's plant book. We look over what we'd accomplished so long ago. I study the scribbles of my tortured slanted handwriting, admiring Peeta's drawings, still put together and detailed in the midst of all that was happening. As Peeta flips the pages, my eyelids grow heavy. Each blink elongates itself; the time before my eyes fluttering open lasting longer and longer despite it being mid-afternoon and the sun resting high in the sky. The whoosh and click of a turning page reveals rosemary. In response, my head, which has been swinging back and forth, finds its home on Peeta's shoulder as my eyes anchor shut.

I hear something muffled, but can't make out the exact words. Groggy, I take in the surroundings. The sun is process of setting, darkening everything. A chill runs through me- it's so cold. I snuggle into Peeta closer, but Peeta sits up rather than relaxing into me.

"Katniss, you're burning up." Peeta's cool hand covers my forehead which brings relief I didn't know I needed. "Do you feel okay?"

Slowly I raise my head off of Peeta's shoulder and sit up. It hits me then that no, I do not feel okay. In the last few hours of napping, it seems that my body has fully betrayed me. A small ache grows in my lower back. Drummers hit the back of my head with wooden mallets. I shiver. I don't want to move ever again.

Peeta sees it in my expression and carefully shifts me to the side, getting up to help me off the couch. "Come on. You need to rest."

I try to stand but my knees are wobbly and I feel weak. I look down and back up before shuffling forward, wanting to push back the sickness and fight through. Efforts are futile. I wince in pain as something twists in my abdomen.

At once I am scooped up off my feet into his arms. Peeta carries me up the stairs quickly yet gently, trying his best not to jostle me. The twisting stops, but the fever presses on.

Peeta tucks me under the covers as I continue to shiver. It reminds us both of the cave in the arena so long ago, although then we both knew exactly what caused the fever that wracked him. "Hold on," he croons, "I'll be right back."

When he comes back up the stairs, in hand is a damp cloth of cool water. He presses it to my head tenderly. I am amazed at the contradiction of my body- my limbs feel so cold but the cool water on my blazing forehead feels excellent.

Momentarily it all makes sense. I'm just sick. No baby. It would seem that the last week was just leading up to this fever: why I've been so tired, throwing up, not wanting food… it was this. Part of me is relieved, yet another surprised. That surprise is accompanied by disappointment, which sends another shiver through me. As unsure as I was about why normal bodily routines seemed so out of line, part of me suspected and anticipated it was a very different reason than the flu.

Deep down, I thought I had been pregnant.

The next hour progresses in a similar fashion. Peeta cares for me, remarkably calm throughout all of it. When I need, he refreshes the cool cloth on my forehead, rubs my arm to warm me up, tells me stories of his childhood to distract my mind from focusing on what is wrong with me. When the twisting in my abdomen returns, he offers his hand for me to squeeze. The pain comes in sharp waves, slowly returning back to a dull ache before rearing its ugly head again.

Eventually Peeta brings me soup. He props me up with one arm and feeds me a few spoonfulls, cueing another bout of pain in my stomach. It passes, and Peeta offers another spoon. I shake my head. "I can't… I've been throwing up a lot this week. I didn't tell you, but I think… I think this is why."

Peeta takes in this information. He seems calm and calculating what it means, but I can tell there is a new suspicion and panic in his eyes. He begins moving around more erratically, leg bouncing and thumbs twiddling.

"You need tonic." We both know him leaving isn't an ideal option, though. "Maybe I can send Haymitch out to get some."

Peeta calls only to find Haymitch is drunk. He suggests giving me a different kind of tonic. Peeta swears under his breath before slamming the phone down.

Looking at me with regretful eyes, he proposes a new plan. "I'm going to have to go get it."

I don't want him to leave, but I nod bravely. "I know."

"Will you be okay?"

I shrug. In reality I struggle not to tell him I need his cool hands and the damp cloth, that I need him to be there when the pain starts again, but I say nothing of the sort.

"Hurry home," I manage, knowing the sooner he leaves the sooner he'll be back, and the sooner all of this will pass.

Alone, I lay there and think about what it means that I'm probably not pregnant.

There's less worry to deal with and less threat, but part of my mind nags at me that the emptiness inside me is regret. I pass it off as not wanting to tell Peeta that conceiving isn't going as we had planned. Still, my own thoughts seem uncertain.

After a time, I think I may have to throw up the soup. Carefully, I drag myself out of bed to the bathroom. Holding my head over the porcelain bowl, I wait for the gagging to happen, wishing it would just be done. However, nothing changes. Momentarily my shaking stills, and as soon as I think maybe the worst has passed, out of nowhere the abdomen pain starts again. This time it's worse than it's ever been. I fall from my knees to a fetal position on the floor, curling into a ball, trying to wait it out.

It wont go away. A few tears fall down my face and I cry out. Why does it hurt with such intensity this time?

Then there is blood. So much blood. When I feel it, my heart stops momentarily. When I see it, I am immobilized.

Part of it triggers something in my memory. I'm taken back to hunting so many years ago and remember Gale telling me about this same scene. He said it happened to his mother, before Rory. _Miscarriage_, he'd called it. The definition of that word drags itself through my head, pacing back and forth.

_No,_ my head screams. _No, it can't be. _What hope was left in me drains out of me. All along, it had been there, living in me. I never even acknowledged it was alive.

It's too late, though. All I can do is stare at the wall in front of me, still lying there shell-shocked, ears ringing.

Eventually I hear doors fling open and running up stairs. I hear Peeta yelling my name. Breathless. Frantic. Scared. Knowing. "I called your mother," he explains, still not in the room. He's shouting as he comes up the stairs. "I had to. Something didn't seem right. I told her about us and that we're trying to have a baby, and she thinks that you're having a…"

His voice trails off as he rounds the corner and sees me lying there in the answer my mother probably gave him.

The moment confirmation and recognition of what had been dawns on Peeta, what now is strikes him hard. He is as motionless as I am. I can't look at him, but I hear his sharp intake of breath, I hear the small catching noises coming from the back of his throat as he tries to hold himself together. He'll be strong for me, but I don't want him to. This was supposed to be for him.

I want to scream at him to get out, to run from me, to save himself from the wake of destruction behind and before me.

I can't find the energy. I can't do anything.

For the second time that day, Peeta crouches down next to me and picks me up, carrying me away from the scene. He takes me away from the bathroom, away from the bedroom, around the corner into the parts of the house left mostly untouched. He carries me into the room set up for guests we never have, what could have been the room for the baby I'll never know. I expect him to set me down and tuck me in to let me rest. Rather, he sits both of us down in the middle of the floor, clutching me to him in a vice grip. The numbness wears off and I begin to tremble, though my limbs feel limp. He shakes too.

After a while, he starts whispering assurances.

"Normal."

"Will be alright."

"Not your fault."

"Next time."

But I know deep down that there will not be a next time. I will not allow it.

All along, I was wrong. Unlike my fears, it was not the world that posed the biggest threat to Peeta's child. Bombs, governments, and starvation had nothing to do with the devastation that awaited such innocence. In reality, the most imminent danger was me.

* * *

**Ending Notes: This chapter is short and choppy. I did it purposefully, as I doubt eloquent statements and descriptions would be going through her head. It was so difficult to write. I wanted to finish it last night… but I couldn't and didn't. So many times I went back and forth on how best to word what I wanted to say. It still isn't what I want, because its so difficult to express this sort of thing. I tried to do it tactfully yet thoroughly. Please let me know if either one of those aspects wasn't grasped. I am willing to make adjustments.**

**I apologize to those of you who thought this was a primarily feel-good story. It's not. Although I do promise that in the end, there will be settling and peace and happiness. Stay tuned.**

**Song Explanation:**** This song shows how Peeta takes care of her. She recognizes that she is, in essence, a "heavy heart to carry", but she doesn't have the strength to tell him to put her down, and he doesn't.**


	5. Chapter 4: Stupor

**A/N: Thank you to all of you who've read, reviewed, favorited, and followed. It means so much to me, and provides sometimes much needed motivation to keep going. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Stupor**

**Song: Heart's a Mess – Gotye**

_You have lost Too much love_  
_To fear, doubt and distrust_  
_You just threw away the key_  
_To your heart_

_You don't get burned_  
_'Cause nothing gets through_  
_It makes it easier for you_  
_But that much more difficult for me_  
_To make you see..._

* * *

I don't know how long we sat there in the guest room. Eventually Peeta stops whispering his assurances- three to four word statements that I hear but leave no impact on my heart- and my trembling stills. I feel very aware that I am still wearing the same soiled clothes, so I pry myself out of Peeta's arms and shuffle to the guest bathroom, wordlessly strip, and jump in the shower. I scrub hard, leaving my skin feeling raw. I want to rid myself of the shame that covers me. I want to remove the memories of the life that once was from my skin. I scrub, hoping maybe I can change who I am, to watch the broken and afraid parts of me mix with the water and soap and disappear down the drain.

Instead, I stand mostly emotionless under the spray and wait to feel something.

I don't.

When I get out, Peeta is waiting, but doesn't push anything. He sits on the floor, back to the wall across the guest room, legs straight in front of him. He studies me with cautious eyes. I can tell he wants to help me, wants to talk about it, but he stays on the other side of the guest room, shyly eyeing the new set of clothes he'd gotten me and placed on the bed during my scrubbing. I wordlessly and slowly dress, get into the guest bed and, lay flat on my back, eyes wide open. After a few minutes Peeta clicks off the light and joins in a similar position. Neither of us say anything- we don't know what words would suffice.

Thirty minutes later, I know we're both still awake. I can practically feel the silent tears streaming down Peeta's face. When I speak, my voice sounds lifeless, the weight of my words holding little force. "I'm sorry."

Peeta could tell me what he's already said. He could again and again say the assurances. He could try to reason me into contentedness. He could berate me for blaming myself; yell at me for letting it happen, anything. However, he responds by intertwining our fingers together under the covers and holds my hand in the dark. _Me too,_ he silently says.

…

A week passes with little development. Days pass like years, yet I feel when I turn around, a whole week has passed. I try to move on as normal, but nothing is the same. My mother hasn't called, but I know she's talked to Peeta. Haymitch looks at me like I'm one of the walking dead, flashing un-Haymitch-like supportive smiles in my direction. Peeta is a rock- he bleaches the bathroom, throws out the clothes I wore, takes care of me dutifully. Yet, we don't talk about it. We go through our normal routine, but there is a pain mutually shared- we both feel it. He seems scared, like I'm a bomb, about to either short circuit and be a dud or explode, destroying everyone around me. Maybe it hurts too much for him too. Mostly I suspect he's waiting until I'm ready.

I'm not ready, though. Not at all. Even if I was brave enough to face it all, I wouldn't.

My nightmares are full and frequent. Often when I awake I see Peeta looking at me, concerned, and feel tears on my face. I cry in my sleep, apparently. Peeta pulls me close to hold me, but I grow rigid, murmur "I'm fine" and roll over, pulling myself from his embrace and sleeping on my own. He lets me go, and every time I try not to see the look on his face. I know it would help to have his arms around me, and truthfully I long for it. However, I feel enough weight from the shame of putting him through this, I shouldn't expect him to take care of me on top of it. I attempt managing on my own, supporting my own weight and dealing with my own sorrows. I want to pay him back for the agony I've put him through by being strong for myself. Despite all of this, I can't shake the feeling I'm hurting him more.

One morning I find that Peeta has left me breakfast and a note. I stand over it, ripping off a corner of the toast and glancing over his calm and precise handwriting. I see the word "bakery" and get the point. I wrap the loose fabric of the jacket I stole from Peeta around me tighter. The house seems eerily empty and big, memories bouncing around the walls in patterns that my mind naturally follows. I hate it, and don't want to be alone.

A visit to Haymitch's house suddenly seems like a good idea. However, after a few knocks and shouting at the door, it appears he isn't home. My options are few: return home to memories, smell of chemicals, and emptiness, the woods which hold increased uncertainty, or the bakery where I would be a bother. Deciding that Haymitch has never been one for respecting people's private lives, I jiggle the handle and find it is unlocked. Letting myself in, I step through the threshold.

His house is messy, clothes piled in corners, dishes stacked up in the sink. It smells of liquor, and I see four half-empty different colored and sized bottles on the couch side-table.

Meandering over, I unscrew an opaque yellow bottle, mostly spherical hold it up to my nose, smelling deeply. Its pungent, not so different from the rubbing alcohol my mother used to keep in her cabinet. Still, the momentary sting distracts me from the thoughts constantly running laps around my conscious.

Curious, I take a sip. It stings as it inches its way down, burning and branding the reasons I'm drinking on the walls of my throat.

One, two, three more swigs and then I find myself laying on the couch, lining up the four different bottles next to me. A forest green bottle that is curved, a lavender triangle shaped bottle, and an aquamarine tall cylindrical bottle with a long neck. One drink at a time I alternate all the different colors and sizes, evaluating the different stings of each.

I think of blood. Sip. The potential conversation when my mother calls because she knows what I've experienced. Tip back. I think of Peeta's future, nothing but me standing before him. Longest pull. My mind starts growing fuzzy, and it feels warmer and soft… I can see why Haymitch loves this so much. I could stay here sipping and sipping until all my worst memories fade into oblivion. So I do. I know I'll have to come back down eventually, but as for now, this is enough.

"Well, isn't this a surprise?"

My tongue feels three times its size and the words escaping my esophagus feel like sandpaper. "Hey Haymitch." I put one hand up in the air, waving at him.

"Does your husband know you're here?"

"Nope" my lips pop on the last syllable.

"Katniss, this is not a good idea."

"Well, I think it's a great idea." When I say 'great', my voice reaches an all-time high.

"Its not. Especially in your state."

I sit up straight on the sofa and look straight at Haymitch. My equilibrium is out of control, torso swinging around. "You have _no_ idea what it feels like, Haymitch."

He scoffs. "What don't I know?'

"My '_state'_."

Haymitch's eyes pierce me, he squints as he talks. "Listen up young lady. I know more of the state of destruction and pain than you can imagine. Don't for a _second_ tell me that I don't know what I'm talking about. Now give me the liquor before you waste it all."

Defiantly I pick up the bottle I like the best- the aquamarine one with a cork top that smells like licorice. Without breaking eye contact I raise the bottle to my lips. I drink too long, and when I take the bottle away I'm sputtering and coughing, trying to catch my breath.

Haymitch tries not to chuckle. Instead a sigh overtakes him and he sits down next to me on the couch, one by one picking up the bottles and returning them to their home on the table next to the sofa. He places a hand on my shoulder. "Dizzy?" I nod. "Head feel like it's on lockdown?" Shrug. "Want to cuss me out?" I open my mouth to let some foul names fly, but he ignores me and continues on. "Stomach churning?" I think, then ghost a hand over my stomach- I wont touch it, I don't deserve to touch there, where Peeta's baby had been. I let out a pained moan.

"It hurts."

"Well, that's probably because you drank on an empty stomach."

I shake my head back and forth erratically. "No, it all hurts. I'm responsible."

He's quiet. "No, sweetheart. You aren't."

"Yes. I. Am." I suddenly understand why Haymitch is always so honest... he can't help it. My explanation slurs and tumbles and falls off my tongue. "Have you felt it? Have you lost something you're supposed to give life to? I was supposed to love our baby. Be excited for it. Instead, my body ruined it. Do you know what it feels like to completely reject someone like that… to not even acknowledge that it's even a person… and then just watch it die? Do you realize what its like to be responsible for that?"

Haymitch leans back, putting both arms behind his head. "Actually, I do. Until you and Peeta, I spent nearly every year at the games drunk- ignoring the tributes, watching them die… I could've done more to get them sponsors. Could've trained them or let them know that I was sorry this happened to them. But I didn't. Instead, I self medicated and attended every reaping, every interview, watched every moment of those games and sat back and did nothing."

I shoot him a glare. "That's not the same. It wasn't you who caused them to die."

He places a hand back on my shoulder. "And neither did you."

He doesn't get it. No one gets it. "You can't lecture me about self-medicating." I say boldly, almost shouting. "You just cant." It's a less than solid rebuttal, but in my current mental state it slips out.

"You're right, sweetheart. But I know someone who can. I need to go make a call."

Haymitch shuffles out of the room, and I slowly stand and stagger my way over to the side-table, where I pick up my favorite bottle. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to make it count. One gulp- I stop replaying the event in my mind and sway in peace. Two gulps- the memory of my father holding me on his lap, telling me he can't wait to meet my children someday fades away. This time the silence of my inner monologue lasts longer, nothing on the horizon. Just to be sure though; three gulps- I almost don't hear the door whack against the wall as it's slammed open.

A voice curses Haymitch.

"Listen, Peeta, she was like this when I got here."

Peeta snaps. "You don't lock your doors?"

"I don't typically worry about my visitors, seeing that you two are typically the only ones." Peeta mumbles something my ears are too drunk to pick up. "She's in there."

"Thanks for the call."

"Anytime."

I'm holding now mostly empty bottle in one hand, my fingers loosening on its neck. Im aware that its slipping from my grasp, but in my drunken stupor my brain can't convince my fingers to tighten. Instead, it falls to the floor, clanking as it reaches the carpet. Im swaying a lot, and nothing crosses my mind. The extra swig did the trick- its like nothing but my physical being exists. I want to stay this way forever.

"Oh, Katniss." It's Peeta, and he sounds equal parts stunned, frustrated, and heartbroken. I hold up a heavy hand over my face, wanting to tell him to stay away, to not take care of me or even look at me, to let me be a wreck for a moment. All that escapes me, though, is a disgusting gurgle of syllables that don't make sense.

As he steps forward towards me, everything goes black, and I fall.

I jolt awake, in a bathroom now, much like the one at my house but with a different smell. I gather I'm at Haymitch's house. Cool, recognizable hands are on my face.

"Thank God," he exhales, brushing the loose tendrils of hair from my face.

"There's our girl." Haymitch is trying not to laugh, I think.

Then, I'm violently ill. Peeta keeps his hands on me to keep me steady as my body purges itself of my mid-morning snack.

"What's going through your head?" Peeta murmurs it, and I have a feeling he was asking it to himself more than to me. He doesn't sound angry, but instead pained. I don't ask him though, as another bought of sickness comes upon me.

When its all done, I lay my head on Peeta's chest, moaning as my eyes close again.

When my eyes open this time, on their own accord, I hear sounds of mumbling and clinking and shifting. It's soft beneath me, and a blanket is wrapped around me. I'm on a sofa which smells like must. My head pounds, most likely from the liquor earlier, but instead of going back to sleep I'm intrigued by what's going on around me. I peel one eye open slightly, taking in the scene. Haymitch rounds up what's left of his four bottles of liquor, swirling them around before taking a long drink. Satisfied with my observation I close my eyes again.

"Does that really help?" Peeta asks, slightly still aggravated, but a genuine question also in his tone.

"Sure as heck doesn't hurt. Want some, big guy?"

I'm sure Peeta will refuse, but when he says "Why not" my interest is piqued.

It's quiet for a while, but I hear the faint glug of Peeta swallowing. When I hear him gasp for breath and cough, Haymitch chuckles and forcefully claps him on the back with a ringing thunk.

"Easy there."

"That's disgusting," Peeta croaks.

Haymitch chuckles again in acknowledgement. "We manage in different ways. You've got your girl on fire, I have my throat on fire. To each their own."

Peeta is silent.

"How are you holding up, anyway?" Haymitch says this quietly, concern lacing his voice.

"Hardly," Peeta says brokenly. I haven't heard him express this kind of emotion since the event happened. Over the last week, he's been a rock- solid, there to support me, taking care of me. Never once has he expressed his own pain. "I don't know what to do about it, Haymitch."

"There's not much you can do. Be strong." Haymitch now sits backwards on a dining chair while Peeta paces back and forth.

"I am! But what else? What else can I do? I can't make it go away. I can't change it."

"You could try again." Haymitch offers this option, and my heart stops. _No_.

"I know. And Katniss' mother said that too. She says this whole thing isn't a freak accident, that there really isn't a definitive way to know what causes miscarriages, but it happens often. She said next time around we'd be able to keep a better eye on it, and that with all the trauma Katniss has been through her body would just need time to adjust."

"Can you tell her that?"

Peeta lets out a breath that he'd apparently been holding. "No, Haymitch, I can't"

"But I don't see why…" I don't know what Haymitch is about to say, but Peeta cuts it off. And I'm grateful. I don't know if I can take thinking about trying again. Not now.

"I'm so…_ angry_." I hear Peeta's breathing growing heavier and more strained. "I'm angry at myself… I practically knew she was pregnant… but when she got sick I second guessed. It wasn't till she told me she had morning sickness that week that it began to click. By then it was too late."

"No one expected you to be an expert on pregnancy, Peeta."

Peeta shoves the comment aside, continuing his speech. "I'm angry that it was too late in the first place- that technology has everything from cameras operated thousands of miles away, the creation of disgusting muttations, tonics to make you throw up, to the ability to implant whiskers to your face but nothing to prevent infants dying before they even get a chance. I'm angry with the world for letting this happen to us. I'm angry that we were so close to having a family, but that this had to happen. I've already lost all of my family except for her. She's lost everyone except her mother, who is barely there. Would it have been so hard for this world to let us have some sort of happiness? Would it?"

He's huffing, and he's not talking to Haymitch anymore, but letting out his sorrow. Usually he is so composed and articulate, but this erratic and pained side of him I'd seen seldom times before. Apparently Haymitch agrees, knowing if he suppresses this for much longer he could explode.

"What else?" I wait for him to be angry at me, bracing myself for what I know I deserve.

"I'm angry that Katniss…" his head shifts towards me to look at my mock sleeping form. I slam my eyelids back closed, ears pricked in intrigue. Here it comes- the berating I've been anticipating now for nine years. However, his voice grows softer and more pained rather than enraged. "I'm angry that she has to experience this. I hate that she blames herself… she already carries so much of this world on her shoulders. Prim, Finnick, Rue, Wiress, Boggs, even me. She didn't need one more thing to carry around." His voice breaks. "How do I do it? How do I show her none of it is her fault? That she's just as much a victim as anyone else?"

"How do we do that for any of us, really?" Haymitch coughs. "Consistency. Assurance, Love. Letting things continue as normal."

"I'm losing her, Haymitch. Every day. She barely talks to me, and what she does say is so soft and vague. Her plate goes mostly untouched, and based on her expressions she doesn't seem to taste anything. We go for walks and normally she's looking at the trees and listening to the birds and lifting her face to feel the wind. Instead, she walks so stiffly, head down all the time." I grow insecure. I had thought I was doing a better job of masking my reactions.

"Give her time. She's a resilient one, that girl."

"Yet she's so much more gentle and kind and fragile than she even knows." My nose crinkles up, and I have to suppress myself from making my cognition known. I am not kind, nor gentle; I have proven it over and over. I am a destroyer.

Haymitch sighs in agreement with Peeta.

"She would've been an incredible mother, Haymitch." As easy as it is to fill my mind with pictures of Peeta and children, I can't conjure anything for myself. The only thing is one undisputable truth: What kind of mother's body rejects her own baby? Mine. Would I be a good mother? No. I already proved that.

"She still could be."

Ferocity finds itself back to Peeta's voice. "I'm not going to pretend that I don't want a child. I'm not going to say that I don't dream of it. And I'm not going assert that Katniss never wanted one either, although I grow less and less sure. Sometimes I think I see it in her, the way she's so broken over this. I could've sworn I saw the bit of a glow she had when she told me okay. I suspected that deep down, maybe in a part of her she never recognized, she wanted a child of our own as well. Maybe I'm still right. I could keep pushing and keep asking, and maybe she'd agree again."

"It'd be worth it," Haymitch says, "I'd be honored to know the little one that comes from such parents."

Peeta's voice breaks again as he talks. "But I want her more than I want a child. And I know maybe I could have both, but at what cost? Do I want a baby if Katniss is still a terrified shell, only in it to give me what I want?"

"No," Haymitch whispers.

"What I'm after isn't just her physical presence. I want her bravery, her wit, her wisdom, her spunk, her compassion. I want who she is." His breathing is labored now, and I wonder if he is crying. "At this point, I think forcing her into a baby might jeopardize that forever."

I feel my awareness sinking deeper and deeper. I want to keep listening, but there's nothing I can do about it. Perhaps its a good thing, for I don't know how much more my heart can take. I'm hurting him as I always do. Would I ever do it right?

The chances seem slim.

Without struggling, once more I let unconscious take me to far less confusing and heartbreaking places.

* * *

**Ending Notes:** **So basically Katniss falls asleep and wakes up a lot. I promise that she wont be in and out of consciousness every chapter. Also, there's not a ton of inner monologue in this chaper because I wanted to express what Peeta was feeling. Also, I figured you would know what she's feeling without me needing to pour out a bunch of depressing muck on you. Also, I wanted to avoid repeating myself over and over.**

**Song Explanation: This song I picked from Peeta's POV. Re-read the lyrics. No explanation needed. **


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